Signs of Nearly Dying
by Veterization
Summary: Stiles/Derek oneshot. Spoilers for 2x10. While lying on the police station floor paralyzed by the kanima, Stiles is starting to think that maybe he should have taken more chances with Derek Hale.


_A/N_: I do not own Teen Wolf.

To die will be an awfully big adventure. **-J.M. Barrie, _Peter Pan_**

* * *

If there was any way that Stiles would be able handpick the method in which his death would be orchestrated, lying next to Derek Hale on the police station floor with no control over any and all body parts south of his collarbone would probably be last on his list of preferred deaths.

Perhaps not last, as after all, he would have died for a cause of stopping psycho Matt from murdering his best friend's mom and maybe even his other father if no one pisses Matt off anymore today by attempting to dial neighboring police stations in their pockets, and then he wouldn't have to die alone either, since there's a hot line of hard, stiff muscle pressed up into his thigh that keeps him very much aware of the rigid presence beside him. Needless to say, dying half paralyzed definitely wouldn't make the top ten, since the ideal of glory and heroism and last minute valor temporarily borrowed from a body much more intrepidly fearless—and possibly stupid—than him, like Batman, is definitely something Stiles could live with much more easily if it means going out with a Batman-esque fervor even if he doesn't own the Batmobile and has only ever kicked anyone's ass when a video game controller is lodged in his hands. He'd take Western cowboy gunfights, hypothermia in the Arctic Ocean, and being mauled by a mountain Yeti over death by kanima or kanima master any day.

Still, even with the less than admirable circumstances, he isn't entirely unprepared for the idea of being brutally murdered along the way in a werewolf versus hunters war. When he first got involved in this lycanthropic malarkey with Scott, he should have predicted that a near death experience would be constantly imminent considering exactly how many people want Scott dead right now, and by affiliation, Stiles too. He mentally curses himself for not choosing better friends back in the first grade when Scott McCall needed to borrow someone's green crayon and Stiles volunteered his own chipped utensil for the job. Still, even with the looming knowledge that sooner or later, he'd be staring down the barrel of a gun or be threatened with a set of gnarled claws, this is not exactly what he had expected to occur when a mere few hours ago, he was wrapping Lydia Martin's birthday present and making sure he would be first to arrive to her party.

In the past few months, he's thought about death. He's thought about what it might feel like, and if he might be able to drudge up some words of memorable wisdom before everything goes black that will have his father weeping and Scott trying to shake him awake, or if he would see his mother's face swimming in his vision after the pain stops and death settles in. He wonders which exactly would be less painful—a swift mauling from the kanima, or a few gunshots to the gut. Right now, on this very police station floor, both seem plausible futures from his angle.

If this was months ago, back before all of the mayhem commenced and his best friend was bitten by an actual werewolf alpha and he was unwillingly dragged into the rubble of the trouble to come, he would want Scott beside him while he dies, listening to one of Stiles' last jokes and genuinely laughing like he's the only person who will ever really understand Stiles' panicked humor. Or maybe his dad, giving him fatherly reassurances that his bloody death will be avenged or that he'll never paint over the snowboarder on the wall in his room. Maybe Lydia, pretty curls tickling his cheeks while she leans over him and slides her dainty fingers over his lips. Never Derek Hale, the creepy boy who lives in complete solitude at the edge of the woods.

But it's not months ago, back in the blissful summertime when things were easy and there was no homework, but rather the middle of March of his sophomore year—he hasn't even graduated yet and thrown his cap into the air and learned exactly which side he needs to move the tassel to after he shakes the principal's hand—and he _is_here with creepy Derek Hale, who he may know more about than just the fact that he's orphaned and his grim face could crumble mountains, who actually has a lot more to him than just being creepy. He's a werewolf, recently an alpha, leader of the pack, completely crazy, one push-up away from morphing into a bodybuilder, and he's alone. Idly, Stiles muses if Derek is as relieved that Stiles is here with him as Stiles is of Derek's presence, even if he's hardly cooing mollifying assurances in his ear to help with his panic.

What he really wants, Stiles thinks, is his inhaler, so he can get one last deep breath in before a Reaper folds him up in his black cloak and carries him off to god knows where—pits of Hell could easily be an option considering the dip of morality his character took in the last year—and possibly have a stimulating conversation with Derek before he bites the bucket. It may not be a kiss with Lydia to seal the deal or scoring his first and last goal in the lacrosse championship, but it's better than nothing.

Dying without learning more about the enigma that Derek Hale is feels almost like a waste of time considering that he's been affiliating with the cryptic dude for so many months, with ample opportunity to peel away the layers of mystery enshrouding Derek like a shield purposefully built to keep outsiders at bay. He knows the man trusts no one, including himself even after holding him up in an eight foot deep pool for so long his shoulders are still groaning at the memory, but with the right persuasion Stiles is sure he could convince Derek to rehash some stories of his childhood and what he wore to prom and if he and his sister ever watched _An American Werewolf in London_just for giggles.

If Scott were here, in his mind, as Stiles mentally starts prioritizing his list of questions for Derek Hale in order of importance, he wouldn't understand Stiles' bizarre obsession with Derek and the reason for his broodiness and how one goes about growing such firm biceps, and Scott is a lot closer to being part of Derek's pack and being justified in being curious about his mentor than Stiles ever will be. If Scott were to ask him right here and right now why he's fascinated with the boy lying frozen beside him, he's pretty sure he would laugh it off and promptly deny any such claims of fixation.

He knows now isn't the best time to have an existential crisis, especially when he's been pushing it aside for months each time he's in the shower with his hand fisting his dick to the rhythm of the water droplets trickling from the showerhead and his mind slyly replaces Stiles' hand with Derek's firm one, or when he thinks back to the night in the pool and he doesn't remember aching arms or the impending threat of drowning or even the rancid taste of chlorine always sitting on his tongue, but rather the feeling of dead, lean weight pressing into his grip and bumping into his hips. He doesn't exactly like to think about those moments too much, because every time they spontaneously pop into his brain he promptly pushes them aside to be mentally dealt with another day, but he's realizing here on this grimy floor that there is no right time, possibly no _another day_, to accept the fact that he's attracted, and dare he say it, _interested_ in Derek Hale even if he knows that it would be the worst relationship ever, including one where Lydia would only have him chauffeur her around town and pay for her dresses. Derek wouldn't get Stiles' humor or understand his love for the eighties and the John Hughes classics, he wouldn't want to talk about his Superman comics or pick him up after detention with Mr. Harris, he wouldn't share flowery, trivial details about his life and then still be punctual when meeting his father for dinner followed by several rounds of _Call of Duty_afterwards. He would be a pain in the ass, with werewolf duties and constant mood swings, with trust issues and an inability to refrain from slamming Stiles into walls despite the dodgy bruises left behind.

It paints a rather nasty picture now that Stiles thinks about it and accepts the fact that he's hot for the main paralyzed not a foot away from him—a fact that he should have noticed earlier when he was unceremoniously dumped onto Derek's chest while the kanima venom sliced through his neck and certain southern parts of his anatomy began to take a stirring interest in the warm mass of muscle underneath him—but amazingly enough, he's not discouraged at the idea of a troublesome relationship with many bumps and twists. He feels the idea of being emotionally close to Derek—the physical part was taken care of when he was manhandled off of Derek's chest and pressed against his body closer than sardines in a tin—flutter in his chest like a dragonfly is doing laps around his ribcage, occasionally tickling his stomach into lurches that make him both want to throw up on the floor and spend a good half an hour nuzzling Derek's stubble. He revels in the idea of being the only person who Derek would be willing to whisper his secrets to, the one he intrinsically trusts in times of pandemonium.

In the other room, Matt is yelling. The worried shouts following the gunfire from Stiles' father in the vague direction of the holding cells have quieted alongside the hushed noises of Mrs. McCall's sobbing. He briefly wonders if the last image he'll ever see of his father was of him chained to a bench in the very police station his son got him fired from, and attempts to telepathically send him apologies that he's failed to accurately vocalize before now.

He tilts his neck until he can catch a glimpse of Derek, face stoic and unmoving as he resolutely stares at the ceiling. Down at their knees, Stiles sees the sticky crimson stains of blood pooling around Derek's claws as he continues to slowly drill his fingernails into the flesh of his thigh to speed up his healing, and if the sight of Derek's hand mangling his own leg and the metallic scent of blood will be the last thing his nose ever has the pleasure of smelling he will personally come back to haunt Derek's ass after he dies.

Slowly, Stiles takes another deep breath and attempts to collect his thoughts. He's seen enough apocalypse movies to know how this goes down. When people know that their end is coming, they change, inexplicably. They love those who betrayed them, seek the forgiveness of those they had forgotten, and confess their gratitude and affection for those who had never known of it. He sneaks a glance at Derek and wonders if this is that moment for him, and that's why he's sandwiched up against Derek's torso instead of flung into a wall unconscious at some shadowed corner of the station far away from the others.

Then again, not like it matters. He's seen the _end_of those apocalypse movies too. The beloved comedy relief dies off midway through the action and is mourned at the end of the film, possibly even cried for by the audience, and then forgotten. It's not like those last minute confessions ever actually stop wars or cause the serial killers to drop their weapons. It's not like Derek will shed tears, swoop him from the ground, and proceed to furnish their quaint one-bedroom apartment on the edge of Beacon Hills with shades of ivory and aqua.

However, undaunted, Stiles barrels on ahead, probably because right now, words are the only thing that will keep his mouth from panicking.

"Derek," he whispers, and the man beside him twitches. "Would you steal the remote if we moved into an apartment together?"

Stiles turns his head left and wishes he could move his hands if only to rub them over his face and twist them together to occupy his cumbersomely still limbs. He attempts to kick his foot. His leg protests and remains motionless. Derek is staring at him with incredulous, no-nonsense eyes, and Stiles is starting to get the feeling he won't be getting an answer.

A moment later, Derek returns to staring at the ceiling. Stiles would love to point out that it's rather unnecessarily hostile to leave innocent questions unanswered, but feels it might be more tactful to skip the what-if apartment scenarios and skip to the imperative inquiries, like _do you find me attractive_because he would like to get a yes before he dies and at least now Derek can't punch him in the jaw or walk away if he asks. Momentarily, he thanks the paralysis.

He wonders if in any other circumstance, he would have the balls to screw the consequences and grab Derek's fist, unfurl his fingers, and grab his hand, or touch his knee, or put his palm right on his thigh and see what happens, any resulting bloody noses worth the risk. The thought makes his pulse speed up ever so slightly, and he feels the palpitations in his neck thrum through his whole body like tiny, nearly unnoticeable vibrations. He looks at Derek and wonders if he hears it, smells the tension in the air radiating off of Stiles' immobile form in waves.

"Did—did you know that some men get erections even after they're dead because all the hormones and stuff are leaving their body?" Stiles' lips say without his permission, and that inappropriate factoid is not what he meant to leave his mouth. Derek glances over, appearing even more hardly amused than he did before, eyebrows knitted together into an offensive line of hair. Stiles feels the immense urge to poke where the creases gather and is vaguely glad that the lack of currently functioning limbs stops him.

"You're not going to die," Derek hisses back.

"You don't sound very sure," Stiles points out, and for a moment he's quite content not having werewolf sharp hearing that would be able to detect a bump in Derek's heartbeat confirming if he's really lying.

"Stiles, no one wants you dead. Just _shut up_."

The lights in the station flicker off, the amber warning light whirring to life in the hallways. Stiles shuts up. He knows that this is it, especially when the sound of numerous gunshots, like machinery pushing bullets through windows and ricocheting off of desks and smashing picture frames, rumbles through the halls, and he doesn't know if the Argents are here or if Matt is packing heat more extreme than any of them originally suspected. He closes his eyes shut, as if he'll be able to tune out the sound of screams and bullets if it all goes dark under his eyelids, and more than anything, he wishes he could be gripping something hard enough for it to break his knuckles, or ducking under a desk, or clumsily curling into a protective ball beneath a wall like his father taught him when he lectured him on safety. Naturally, the venom has no sympathy for Stiles' plight, or the fact that he's an adolescent teenager who needs to have sex before he can die happy, or that he will now routinely wake up to nightmares of gunshots whizzing past his nose, and Stiles remains helplessly paralyzed.

"Oh god," he mumbles, just because he needs to be speaking. "Oh _god_, Derek. Derek?"

He doesn't see him anymore when he finally opens his eyes, just the vague silhouette of a dark, frozen figure in the shape of a man still pressed tightly against him. He barely feels the heat of Derek's sturdy leg pressing into his, and he desperately focuses on it to keep himself occupied anywhere but the sound of running footsteps and unearthly screams. He hopes no one shoots Scott straight in the head, because he's not sure if werewolves can recover from that sort of brain damage even though they have hit the healing jackpot, and here he is, completely human and helpless, and he admits that right now he sort of wants to hold Derek's hand if only to feel better by sticking close to something undoubtedly more powerful than himself.

"_Stiles_. Be quiet."

He feels his heartbeat pick up like a frantic symphony of drums when he hears Derek's surly orders, the sound of his grim voice oddly comforting as his eyes blink and attempt to acquaint themselves with the shadows. He wants to ask all of his questions right now, even the ones not directed at Derek, like _why is my life a big joke to the cosmic deities_because this can't be how he goes out, with an Argent shooting him in the head faster than he can plead to them that he's not a werewolf or the kanima's tail slicing over his neck and slimy claws digging into his chest right over his beating heart. And if that doesn't kill him, he's pretty sure the shock alone and the urgent palpitations of his heart wrestling with the blood pumping furiously through his arteries will cause his body to shut down.

And oh god, why did he never turn the tables on Derek and push _him_ up against a wall, breathe in his ear and smell his aftershave, feel like a real man and no longer a boy who chases after his schoolgirl crush. Why did he never go the movies with his father, or bash in Jackson's head with a lacrosse stick _just once_.

His asthma starts acting up and he breathes hard through his nose, closing his eyes again. Beside him, Derek's wrist bumps into his own, barely a twitch, but it snaps him back to reality. Right, gunshots. His mind sways for a moment, swimming like a rusty old ship swaying abandoned in the ocean.

"Stiles, calm down. I can hear your heartbeat—jesus, _calm down_."

"You have to make sure Scott puts something funny on my grave, all right? And someone's—someone's going to have to eat spaghetti with my dad every Thursday night."

"_Stiles!_" Derek snaps, and he sounds so annoyed that Stiles withers to a wordless stop once again. He can already see his gravestone, with nothing but the word _STILES_ carved artfully into the side with a rickety font, perhaps a catchy, sarcastic moniker embossed underneath, like _with great power comes great responsibility_or something equally awesome that would make people whisper about how idyllic his life was when they walk by his grave. Derek's wrist manages another feeble bump into his, and ineffably enough, it keeps him grounded.

"Okay, okay, okay," Stiles says all in one breath. "What's our plan of attack? Tell me you have a plan."

"I get you out of here, and then you run away."

"What? No!" Stiles says, and suddenly the fear dissipates a bit with the thought of watching from the sidelines. Hasn't he already told Scott a million times that he refuses to be Robin even one more instance? "If I have to be Robin one more—"

"_Stiles_."

"Are you seriously saying you don't want my help?"

"_I don't want your help_," Derek says firmly, and even enunciates. Through the shadows, Stiles looks over and makes out the fuzzy dots of uncultivated stubble and a pointy nose. If his body would be up for shifting just one more inch, he could bite that nose. Or maybe devote his mouth and teeth to more important endeavors and kiss Derek senselessly goodbye. This could be like _Titantic_.

"This could be like _Titantic_," Stiles whispers. Derek's eyebrows furrow once more, familiar wrinkles appearing on his forehead once more that will have his face resembling a wrinkly, leathery tomato laying in the July sun soon if he doesn't keep his frowns and scowls in check.

"What?"

"I mean, what if you and I made a pact," Stiles says urgently, rushing his words now as he can hear footsteps thundering down the hall and a voice in his screaming at him in his head that says that if he doesn't want to die a virgin and forever wonder if Derek Hale's mouth tastes like peanut butter or puppy kibble he better keep talking. "That if we both survived, you'll tell me about—about what you ate for Christmas dinner with your family. Or about your sister. And I'll—I'll tell you about all those times I sat with my mom at the hospital and we don't have to cry, even. I bet people are always waiting for you to cry, at least, when you don't look so murderous. We could even skip all that and just watch _Breakfast Club_, yeah?"

Derek doesn't look any less confused. He doesn't get it, none of it, not that he's Kate Winslet and Stiles is Leonardo DiCaprio and that he's about to _die_ here on this grimy floor if the paralysis doesn't fade away yet so he can leap to his feet and jog about one hundred miles away with Scott on his heel, camp out in the woods with cans of beans, and fall off the radar for two weeks until everything at home returns to normal. He suddenly realizes just _how badly_ he needs to tell Derek this, how he never wanted any of this, how he never meant to bother broody Derek Hale in the woods that day when Scott went looking for his inhaler, or how sorry he is that right now all he can think about while the adrenaline courses through him is that he _needs_to hold Derek Hale's fucking hand and promise him that they will do the whole sneaking-into-Stiles'-window-in-the-dead-of-night routine to eat pizza and make out and be twice as disgustingly sweet and sugary as Allison and Scott are. He waits for Derek to nod, for his face to light up with comprehension with the words Stiles is trying to properly articulate, just so he doesn't actually have to say it out loud. The footsteps come closer.

Suddenly, it feels like he's been building up to this confession all night, and Stiles' hand start to sweat. "Derek, I just—god, my life can't always be this embarrassing," he moans, and one again wishes he could burrow his face in his hands and only peek out through the spaces between his knuckles. "I just think you should know that I really. I really think that you and I—"

_Could work_.

It doesn't make it the rest of the way past his brain to his tongue and into the air to be awkwardly considered, because goodness sake, he's about to ask a werewolf to give him a shot, especially since he owes him one—or twenty—for that pool rescue business. He's about to revel in just how ridiculous he feels, like he belongs in a corny Sci-Fi documentary, the words tingling on his tongue and about to be met with the best impression of a deer in the headlights, maybe even in the fricking _spotlight_, on Derek's face, when Derek's eyes flicker past Stiles to the doorway.

Stiles moves his head to see Scott rushing his way, the bloody stain splashed over the bottom of his shirt still shining wetly but the rest of his body perfectly unharmed and not impaled with arrows, a billow of smoke following him into the room. When did the _smoke_start?

"Take him! _Go_!" Derek is suddenly frantically bellowing directly into Stiles' ear and Scott is dragging Stiles' dead weight up onto his knee, grabbing him from under the armpits and lifting his heavy limbs into a manageable position. He looks at Scott, who is nodding at Derek and pulling Stiles away from the floor he's spent the last hour on whispering conspiratorially to Derek and scheming on how to take down the kanima and then, about his grave and about how he's got a crush on goddamn Derek Hale.

"Wait!" Stiles says, chancing a look at Derek, who's looking at Stiles as if warning him not to say another disobedient word and let Scott drag him to safety. "Wait, I still haven't told—no, wait, Scott—"

A moment later, he's dumped in the chair in another shadowy corner of the station smelling equally rank like the others and of the lingering odor of shed blood, neck hanging off the chair Scott deposited him into and eyes fixated on the ceiling while the feeling of life in his toes inches up to the sole of his feet. Scott tells him to stay put—rather insensitively—and runs the opposite direction, leaving him unspeakably alone this time and not any more out of harm's way than he was before.

He thinks about Derek when he's crawling desperately along the police station floor to where his father is helplessly chained next to Scott's mother, and decides that he will keep his promise, and if he lives to see the morning light creep up the horizon, warm the lacrosse bench while cheering through countless more games from the sidelines, stare at Lydia's legs in chemistry, and chase after werewolves in the woods like a madman, he will hunt Derek down and force him to watch _Breakfast Club_with him.

It's a start.


End file.
